


Night and Day

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Historical Figures, Historical References, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19383541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: Five times Aziraphale and Crowley encountered queer historical figures who know more about them than they do, and one time they actually have a clue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Night and day, you are the one.  
> Only you beneath the moon, or under the sun  
> Whether near to me or far, no matter darling where you are  
> I think of you, night and day." Cole Porter

Sappho

c.630 BC-c.570 BC

“For when I look at you even for a short time, it is no longer possible for me to speak; but it is as if my tongue is broken and immediately a subtle fire has run over my skin. I cannot see anything with my eyes, and my ears are buzzing.'”

Sappho stills her lyre, letting the last notes evaporate into the air until only sounds of the waves remain, lapping against the beach. She pauses a moment, to let her audience savour the quiet, then says, “Well, Aziraphale? What do you think? It's still a work in progress, of course. I'm thinking of adding another stanza, maybe two.”

Aziraphale claps his hands together, wiggling happily on the warm sand. “Sappho, darling, that was absolutely divine. Your best yet.” 

“Do you really think so?” She'd been a little unsure. “You don't think it's too...I don't know, cliché?”

“It's perfect. Do you know what I would like?” Aziraphale asks, dreamily. Sappho shakes her head. “I would like a library of my very own. I would keep all of your poetry in it, and all of the other poems I love, and I could recite them whenever I want.” 

Sappho laughs. “That sounds lovely.” But that's an excellent way to describe Aziraphale: lovely. He's a nice, sweet, lovely man. Sappho at first thought he was a eunuch, but later overheard him spluttering an explanation to Antigone and Pallas that he “made an effort to be anatomically intact, thank you,” which is a strange way of putting it, but Aziraphale is a little strange. Not like the other men, who think all women were born to sit and sew and birth their children. He appreciates her intellect, her art, in a way so few others do. 

“Do you...” Sappho hesitates. “Do you find any personal meaning in this one, at all?” It's a poem dear to her own heart, but while she's been left broken-tongued and buzzing-eared by any number of beautiful women, she's not sure where Aziraphale's tastes lie. There are several local girls who would be happy to marry him, but he has gently rebuffed them all. It makes Sappho wonder if he and she may be more alike than it first appears. 

“Oh, I, I, I don't know, dear,” Aziraphale stammers.

“There's no one who makes 'your heart flutter in your breast'? No lucky woman or boy?” Sappho pauses, looking out to sea. She has no wish to embarrass Aziraphale, but he can trust her. “Or man?” 

Aziraphale flushes, and she knows she's right. “I wouldn't...I mean, I wouldn't call it...he's not really a...we hardly know each other, and I haven't seen him for quite some time.”

“Is he a soldier?” 

“You could say that, I suppose.” 

“Then he'll come home to you when the gods will it.” 

Aziraphale laughs suddenly, a sharp bark. “That's kind of you to say, but if the gods have a list of favourites, he won't be on it. I wouldn't even expect him to be in the same building where the list is kept, to be honest. Probably not on the same plane of existence.” 

“A bad boy, then?”

“The worst.” But the way he says it lets Sappho know he doesn't think that. No matter how others may see him, this man is not a villain in Aziraphale's eyes. “In any case,” he goes on, briskly, “it's not like that. We're friends. Not even friends. I don't like him at all.” He sounds like a man trying to convince himself more than anyone else. Sappho knows how that feels. 

“Are you hungry?” She asks. 

Aziraphale usually is, but he purses his lips, as if considering the question. “Perhaps something light. A little cheese, maybe. Some bread. A few olives. Is it too late in the day for _staitita_ , do you think?” 

“Never too late.” Sappho stands, brushing sand from her chiton. She holds out a hand to Aziraphale, who pulls himself up. He's surprisingly light for his build. 

“Oh, but will there be a fuss if we try to eat together again?” He frets. “I know how your...how our people get about men and women dining at the same time.”

Sappho doesn't particularly care. “I'm not a typical woman, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “And I suppose I'm not a typical man. I say, perhaps that's why we're such good friends.” The idea seems to please him, so Sappho nods. 

“Perhaps.” She puts her arm through his, and walks with him up the hillside towards the house.

Alexander the Great

356 BC-323 BC

“Hephaestion.” Alexander has never been more reluctant to say that beloved name. “Hephaestion, my dear, we're out of wine.” He upends the bottle in his hand to prove it.

Hephaestion, his head resting on Alexander's lap, opens drowsy eyes and peers up at him. “And so?”

“And so, I want some more.” 

“Then call for some.” 

“I'll just get it myself.” Alexander presses a kiss to the other man's forehead, then gently pushes him onto the silk sheets of bed beneath them. “Use the time to nap,” he says. “When I return, I shall have great plans for you.” 

“Indeed?” Hephaestion grins, settling in to the pillows. “I look forward to hearing what they are.” 

Alexander doesn't realize quite how drunk he is until he tries to stand up. A stagger is unbecoming for a man of his position, so he squares his shoulders and strides straight and true through the tent flap and out into the party.

Alexander wanted to see what's going on more than he wanted to retrieve his own wine. He and Hephaestion retired early, and Alexander loves parties like these, loves that he can provide them for his friends and his men. They are all enjoying a raucous time. Soldiers laugh and drink and loll about with scantily clad women on their laps. Other women provide the music; sounds of the dialous and the lyre permeate the evening air, which is still scorching hot although the sun is now barely visible on the horizon. An atmosphere of fun and frivolity is everywhere Alexander looks, and that is just as it should be. He asks these men to risk their lives for his dreams. It's only fair that he offer them a dream of their own from time to time. 

Alexander picks up a bottle of wine and shares a half-embrace with an equally drunk soldier who falls into him, slurring words of praise. As Alexander heads back to the sanctuary of his room and Hephaestion, his eyes alight on another man. 

This one is sitting alone, and seems ill-suited to all that's going on around him. He wears an officer's uniform, and when the light from the brazier catches his hair, Alexander can see it is a remarkable shade of red. It's a colour Alexander would not easily forget, although he could swear he has not seen this man before. 

“All is well?” Alexander asks, approaching. 

The man glances up. There's a goblet in his hand, but it's empty. Alexander opens his bottle and fills it up, receiving a nod of thanks in return. 

“Is this,” Alexander indicates the festivities, “not to your liking?” 

The man shakes his head. “No, it's great. Really top notch party. Kudos for that. I'm just not really feeling it tonight, you know?” 

Alexander doesn't know, but he hazards a guess. “If none of the girls catch your eye, there are many boys who would be glad of company.” That doesn't seem to stir interest. “Even,” Alexander goes on, “men, if that's your preference.” He can hardly fault him if it is. By rights and by tradition, he and Hephaestion should have abandoned their youthful affair long ago, but the idea of separating himself permanently from his love is more painful than any battlefield wound Alexander can imagine. 

“Right. Yeah, thanks.” The man lets out a long sigh. 

Alexander understands at once. “You are lovelorn.” 

“I don't know if that's exactly the word for it.”

Alexander laughs. “I know the look of it, man.” Campaigns and battles have kept him apart from Hephaestion too many times not to. “Who is it?” 

“Nobody you'd know. Actually, he's...” The man hesitates. “Kind of on the other side, I guess you could say.” 

“A Persian?” 

“Worse than that.” 

“Not a Syrian, surely?” 

“OK, yeah. Let's go with Syrian.” 

Alexander shakes his head sympathetically. He would never usually say this, but he is drunk, on wine and on love of his own, and in a generous mood. “We cannot choose who we love, friend. Aphrodite often plays cruel tricks, and we can only be swept up in her whims.” 

The man looks at him. His eyes seem odd, but the light is too dim for Alexander to really make them out. “Thing is, I don't think he's really all that swept up.” 

“Your love is not requited?” 

“No.” 

“Is he stronger than you?” 

“As in, could he win a fight?” 

“Yes.”

The man seems to consider this. “I'm not...I've never really thought about it. Maybe not? He's kind of...soft.” 

The answer in that case is simple. “Then take what you want from him, and prove your worth to him with your actions.” 

The man stares. “Wow. Little bit of a culture clash there. Or, I guess, maybe not. Either way, straight up rape's not really my scene, so thanks for the advice, but...”

“You think I'm indifferent to your plight. I am not.” How can he be, when Alexander has suffered the same heartache over beloved Hephaestion? “But nothing in life will ever be handed to you. If you lack the courage to act on your convictions, you will wind up with nothing.” 

The man blinks. Alexander wishes he could see those fascinating eyes more clearly. “OK. That's one for the journal.” The man mimes writing with a reed pen. “'Dear Diary, Weather hot again today. Alexander the Great told me to grow a pair. Had figs for supper.'” 

This man is odd. Very different from the others. Alexander likes him, and would like to speak more with him. But he has Hephaestion in his bed, and the night is not growing any younger. He claps the man on the shoulder. “I wish you luck, my friend. Remember, Zeus favours the bold.” He has always favoured Alexander. Proof that even the gods know a winner when they see one. 

When he gets back to bed, Hephaestion is sitting up, waiting. “What took you so long?” 

Alexander falls onto the mattress beside him, careful not to splash the precious wine. “I was offering counsel to a new friend.” Alexander pauses, even as Hephaestion slinks beneath his free arm, his tongue tracing the shell of Alexander's ear. “Hephaestion...”

His love sighs noisily. “What is it now?” 

“What do you think of the name 'Alexander the Great'?”

King James VI of Scotland and I of England

1566-1625

There is nothing James loves more than a good play.

Well, almost nothing. As the players cavort in front of them, spinning their tale of intrigue and familial deception, James rests a fond hand on George Villiers' thigh. Villiers looks over and smiles, placing his hand atop James' and squeezing. 

Glancing around his assembled court, James can see many other lovers taking the opportunity to discreetly touch, to lean in close, to use the pretense of the play to press together more than they strictly need to. James smiles. He is a man who loves love in all its forms. It makes him happy to see others enjoy it the way he does. James has heard the oh-so-witty saying, popular these days, that “Elizabeth was King, now James is Queen.” It's meant to be a slur against his manhood, but privately, James embraces it. Love is more worthwhile than war. The love of a good man, in his opinion, is the most worthwhile of all. 

It seems that one of his newest friends, Aziraphale, agrees with him. He's a strange one. He bears a foreign name, although he himself is more English than James. He is devoutly religious, very encouraging of the idea—one that is rapidly becoming more and more appealing to James—of creating a single unifying translation of the Bible. But as James watches him, it becomes apparent that he and Aziraphale may have more in common than simply an interest in theology. 

The man beside Aziraphale is tall and slender, with striking red hair and smoked glasses. Like James, Aziraphale has a hand on his lover's thigh. He leans in close to whisper into the man's ear, then pulls back, smiling so broadly it wrinkles his nose. The man shakes his head and looks skyward, as if appealing to a higher power, but James can see the grin on his face. And there's no doubt as to why. Aziraphale is an appealing man, very handsome and with a pleasing disposition. Had his heart not been bound to Villiers, James might have even considered trying his luck himself. 

After the play is finished, the court moves to the feast. Food is another of James' great loves, but as he's halfway through his sturgeon, he notices Aziraphale dining heartily, yet alone. He summons a page, who brings Aziraphale up to James' place at the head table. 

“Your Majesty.” Aziraphale bows. 

“Where's your friend?”

“My...friend, your Majesty?” Aziraphale dissimulates, but it doesn't fool James. 

“Your lover, then.” No sense in beating about the bush. Aziraphale turns quite a fetching shade of pink. “He did not wish to join us?” 

“He doesn't...he's not much of an eater, Your Majesty. And, if I may be so bold, it seems his Majesty may have the wrong idea...” 

“Is he a Jewish convert?” Some of them have kept hold of their funny ideas about food, James knows. 

Aziraphale blinks, rapidly and more often than seems necessary. “Ah, no, your Majesty. He is not.” 

“Well, both of you are welcome here.” 

“Thank you, your Majesty.” 

James lowers his voice a little, leaning forward. Aziraphale does the same. “And if the pair of you are so inclined, Villiers and I are having a little...private soiree tonight in my chambers. We would welcome you there, as well.” He gives a saucy wink, to ensure his point is well taken. 

Aziraphale's fetching blush is replaced by pallidity, as if, like the principal character in today's play, he has encountered a ghost. “That's, that's, that's, very kind, your Majesty, ever so kind, and please don't think I don't appreciate the offer, but I'm not quite sure it's something he'd be interested in.” 

“He prefers to have you alone, is that it?” James can't blame him. Sometimes, true privacy is the most cherished gift of all. There is a reason he had a secret passage installed connecting Villiers' rooms with his own, and it was not to improve the circulation of air in the castle. 

“If there's nothing else, your Majesty?” Aziraphale asks, his voice somewhat higher in pitch than normal. 

“Yes, yes. Of course.” James waves a dismissive hand. Aziraphale goes, and James leans over to plant a kiss on Villiers' cheek. 

“What was that for, darling?” Villiers asks coyly. 

“For existing, my love,” James replies, and returns to his meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Sappho's work is lost. The lines she speaks here are from one of the largest remaining fragments, known as "Sappho 31." And the play James is watching is totally Hamlet.


	2. Chapter 2

The “Ladies of Llangollen”

The Right Honorable Lady Eleanor Butler (1739-1829) and Sarah Ponsonby (1755-1831)

Drops of rain fall from the sky as Sarah nears the house, with the downpour beginning in earnest as she climbs the steps and slips inside. She hands her damp coat off to the footman, who says, “I'm afraid Mary has gone to market, Miss Ponsonby, but if you require help with your dress, I can summon the kitchen maid.”

“No need.” She is by no means soaked to the skin. “I'll just dry off by the fire.” 

“Lady Eleanor is in the library,” the footman replies. He waits until he's halfway down the corridor before he adds, “With a guest.” 

Even without the forewarning, Sarah could have heard the visitor before she crossed the drawing room. He's an Englishman, clearly, speaking loudly and excitedly. Sarah stifles a sigh. They need guests like this. They depend on them. Rather, they depend on their donations. These people who come to stare, as if in a zoological garden, at the spectre of two women living without husbands or fathers finance the life Sarah and Eleanor want, the life they've given up everything to achieve. But sometimes, Sarah gets so very tired of being a curiosity. 

She forces a smile as she enters the library. Eleanor and the man, of indeterminate age and obvious wealth, are sitting close together, their heads bent over a book. They look so companionable that for a moment, Sarah almost feels a stab of jealousy. Then Eleanor looks up, her beaming smile meant only for Sarah, and the feeling dissipates. “Sarah! I must introduce Mr. Fell.” 

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Ponsonby.” Mr. Fell makes no effort to get up, so Sarah makes no effort to greet him beyond a cursory, “Indeed.” She goes over to the fire, roaring in the grate, as Eleanor continues: 

“Mr. Fell has a bookshop in London. Isn't that charming?” 

“I've only just opened it,” Mr. Fell adds. “And I must admit, I'm quite in awe of the collection you ladies have here.” 

“The books are all Eleanor's,” Sarah says. It's the truth. Eleanor is the bookish one, the intelligent one. The courageous one. Without her, Sarah would never have found the mettle to achieve a quarter of what they've done together. 

“Oh, my dear, were you caught in the rain?” Eleanor asks, her brows knitting in concern. 

“It's nothing.” 

“But I must have Mary fetch you some tea.” She reaches for the bell. 

“Mary has gone to market.”

“Then I'll fetch it myself.” 

“There's really no need.”

“Nonsense!” Eleanor's mind is clearly made up. Sarah has learned over the years that there is no point in arguing with her in that state. “I'll bring us all a little light supper. Mr. Fell and I have been so engrossed in the books, we quite lost track of the time.” 

“If there's something I can do to help, dear lady?” Mr. Fell offers. 

“Not at all. I won't be a moment.” And just like that, Eleanor is gone, leaving Sarah alone with Mr. Fell.

For a long moment, the only sound is the ticking of the clock. Sarah is perfectly happy with that, but Mr. Fell is clearly one of those men who cannot leave a silence unfilled. “You have a lovely home,” he says. 

“Thank you.” 

“Lady Eleanor was kind enough to tell me something about where you come from, in Ireland.” 

Sarah prefers not to think of Ireland. Or, rather, she prefers not to think of the people she and Eleanor know there. “Have you been?”

“Not for a donkey's age, I'm afraid. I do enjoy travel, though. A friend of mine and I were recently in France.” 

“France?” 

“This was before Napoleon,” Mr. Fell adds hastily. “I suppose it wasn't that recently after all, but it feels like only yesterday. I got into a spot of bother, and my friend, Mr. Crowley, he was ever so kind in coming to my rescue.” The thought brings a smile to Mr. Fell's face. “My knight in shining armour, you could say, although he wouldn't appreciate it. He has terrible memories of the Middle Ages. Of learning about the Middle Ages, I mean. At school. He was always a terrible historian. More of a scientist. Very keen on astronomy. And botany.” Mr. Fell seems suddenly flustered, although Sarah has said nothing. “Yes, he's a very keen botanist. Has a marvellous collection of plants. They're beautiful. In any case, as I say, I got in a spot of bother, and he was very helpful. Such a gentleman, I really don't know where I'd be without him. Well, probably not here. Ha ha!” His laugh is manic, and at once, Sarah understands all she needs to. 

While many of their visitors come solely to gawk, an equal number come because Sarah and Eleanor are doing something they wish they could themselves: choosing their own lives. Some would like to escape their domineering families the way Sarah and Eleanor have, at least to a partial extent. For others, it's a question of longing for a freedom they will never achieve. And some of their visitors have even more in common with Sarah and Eleanor than that. 

“Are you married, Mr. Fell?” Sarah asks. 

“Me?” Mr. Fell's eyes grow wide. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Not the marrying type, I'm afraid.” 

Sarah cannot say she is shocked to hear it. “And your friend, Mr...Crowley? What of him?”

“A bachelor as well.” 

Sarah has genuine empathy for all those who visit out of longing. It is no easy thing to deviate from one's preordained path; she knows that better than anyone. But it is easier for men than it is for women, because men do not have the same struggle to be independent. Wealthy men like Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley could move in together as a pair of bachelor friends, have their bookshop and their botany, and be subject to nothing more than a bit of idle gossip. They would never have to parade themselves as oddities in order to survive. Convention constrains men in their minds. It constrains women in reality. 

Before Sarah can explain this, Eleanor returns, pushing a trolley ahead of her. “The kitchen maid had it all ready for us,” she says. “Lovely girl. Mr. Fell, will you pour?”

“Gladly, Lady Eleanor.” He beams at her, as if the two of them are old friends already, and they join Sarah by the fire. 

Mr. Fell stays late into the evening. Sarah knits and stares into the flames while Eleanor and Mr. Fell twitter at one another, saying things like, “'Arthur Mervyn' really is the quintessential example of Gothic literature, would you agree?” and “But don't you find Robert Burns dreadfully opaque?” The rain stops, although, this being north Wales, that won't last for long. 

When Mr. Fell finally says, “Oh, goodness me, is that the time?” Eleanor, sweet thing that she is, says, “You must return tomorrow, Mr. Fell. I have so much still to show you!”

Sarah has never come closer to kissing a man than she does when Mr. Fell says, “Oh, my dear lady, I wish that I could, but alas, I must move on.” He stands and pulls a netted purse from the pocket of his breeches. “A donation for your time, ladies, and in appreciation of all the wonderful conversation you have offered me.” He hands the purse to Sarah. She is too genteel to count out the coins in front of him, but it is very hefty. Hefty enough that Sarah feels a sliver of guilt for her uncharitable irritation towards him. 

“We should see you to the door,” she says, even as Eleanor rings for the footman. 

“I really can't inconvenience you any further.” 

“Then please, give our regards to your Mr. Crowley.” Mr. Fell looks startled. “Our lives are our own, Mr. Fell,” Sarah says. “And our days are finite. We must live them for our own happiness, and that of those we love.” Anything more explicit, and Eleanor will tut at her later for “embarrassing their important guests.” Mr. Fell takes her meaning. She can see it in his eyes. 

“Yes. Well. Yes. Indeed. Good night, ladies.” He gives a little courtly bow, of the type Sarah hasn't seen since she was a child. 

When he's gone, Eleanor gathers up her books, returning them carefully to their allotted places in the shelves. “He really was lovely,” she says. 

“I wish him the best,” Sarah says, and means it.

Ivor Novello (1893-1951)

Noel Coward (1899-1973)

Ivor has never quite gotten used to being a star. Nerves still rack his body at every opening night, before every screen test, and as he sets out for every gala film premiere. But his heart never beat as fast as it does looking at Tony Crowley, sitting on the beach in a striped bathing costume and sunglasses.

It's a silly emotion for a man in his forties to have. Noel would tease him mercilessly if he knew about this...schoolboy pash of his. Tease him, then loudly say something like, “I say, Tony, dear boy, how do you feel about fucking Ivor? Because he's rather keen to fuck you.” Worse yet, he'd get drunk, again, and arrange some juvenile kissing game, making sure to put Ivor and Tony together. To be honest, Ivor would probably do the same, if they were at his place near Maidenhead and the pash was Noel's. 

And then there's Bobbie to think about. Darling Bobbie, back in dreary old England while Ivor lazes about the French Riviera flirting with another man. And they did flirt last night, quite shamelessly. He remembers Tony urging him to play tune after tune, which Ivor did drunkenly and badly, while Tony sat beside him on the piano bench, a bottomless drink in his hand and his body pressed distractingly against Ivor's. Not that this seemed to bother anybody else. Noel never confines himself to any one lover. None of their friends do. Even men and women who are properly married, in the eyes of the law and of God, seem to forget their vows here, and nobody bats an eye. Ivor didn't used to bat an eye, but it's been a long time since he felt like this. 

“Ivor!” Tony calls, waving from his deck chair. “Won't you join me?” 

The sand is infernally hot, scorching the soles of Ivor's feet as he picks his way across it. “Good lord, Tony.” He aims for a jovial tone. “No wonder everybody else is inside. You know what Noel would say about mad dogs and Englishmen.”

“Just as well I'm not an Englishman, then,” Tony replies, breezily. Is that true? He certainly sounds English. “I can't speak to the other.” 

Ivor laughs and sits in the deckchair beside Tony's, even as a little voice inside him tells him not to do it, to go back inside, to escape while he still can. _Rubbish_ , he tells the voice. _He's just a man._

“Anything interesting going on?” Ivor nods at Tony's newspaper. There's something on the front page about the election of a new German leader, a fellow with a grim expression and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. Ivor doesn't particularly want to talk politics with Tony, German or otherwise, and he's pleased when Tony tosses the paper aside. 

“I prefer to go to the cinema,” Tony says. “I saw 'Autumn Crocus' a few weeks ago.”

“You must have been the only one.” Ivor hopes his laugh sounds self-deprecating rather than on the edge of madness. 

“Lucky me, then. You were divine in it.” 

Ivor's face heats up. It has nothing to do with the weather. “That's too kind of you, darling.” He scarcely recognizes his own voice. Ivor's not like Noel, peppering 'darlings' and 'loves' and 'sweethearts' into conversation with everyone from his actors to his friends to his postman. Ivor's not fluttery, but Tony makes him feel that way, makes him feel like he wants to say things he wouldn't normally say. Like he wants to do things he wouldn't normally do. 

Tony shifts on the deckchair, angling himself towards Ivor and spreading his legs just slightly. The bulge in the front of his bathing costume is apparent, and it moves the flutters to a different part of Ivor's body. 

“You're a very handsome man, Ivor,” Tony murmurs. It's nothing Ivor hasn't heard before, but it's been years since it affected him like this. He feels itchy, and slightly ill. It's marvellous. 

“So are you.” It's the truth. Tony is remarkable, with his red hair and his sharp cheekbones. Ivor has never seen anyone like him. 

“Is that right?” Tony shifts a little closer. “Perhaps we could get to know one another a little better.” His voice rolls over the words like honey, arousing and reassuring Ivor at the same time. 

Ivor can't lie. “I would like that very much.” 

“But what about Bobbie?” Ivor can't remember mentioning his name to Tony, but he must have done. In any case, their relationship, nearly twenty years old now, is hardly a secret in Noel's circles. 

“Bobbie won't mind,” he says. It's not true. As they've grown older, fidelity has become more important to both of them, but at this moment, Ivor can't bring himself to care. He can't see Tony's eyes, but they might as well be hypnotic spinning circles. Ivor is that mesmerized by him. 

It's Ivor who takes the first step, leaning over the space between their deckchairs and taking Tony's hand. Tony doesn't pull away. Ivor looks into Tony's sunglasses, trying to meet his gaze, but all he sees is his own reflection. “Ivor...” Tony murmurs, teeth emerging to bite his own bottom lip. The flutters increase tenfold. 

“Tony, darling,” he breathes. He doesn't know where to start. There's so much he wants to do, so many poetic things he wants to say. Ivor is burning. He is inflamed by lust, consumed by it, his passion piqued in a way it hasn't been since the early days of his affair with Bobbie. Bobbie, his devoted lover for close to half of their lives, who might as well be Ivor's brother or his mother or his former landlady for all he matters now. 

“Yes,” Tony replies. He's nearly panting, clearly in the same boat as Ivor. He reaches out, tangling the fingers of his free hand in the front of Ivor's bathing costume. 

“Tony,” Ivor repeats, feeling stupid with desire, “you're scrumptious.” 

Once, long ago, Ivor visited Niagara Falls. He wondered at the time what it might feel like to stand beneath that torrent of cold water, to be instantly hit with a sudden splash that is incomprehensible in terms of it's sheer magnitude. Now, he knows. In a moment, less than a moment, everything he's feeling for Tony is swept away. The lust and the longing are not merely gone, it's as if they never existed. He flinches away from Tony as if the other man were a dangerous animal, a tiger or a viper, and Tony does the same to him. 

“I do beg your pardon,” Ivor says, stunned. “I don't know what came over me.” A sudden fever, perhaps? Some hot-weather malady he's ill-equipped to deal with? 

“It's my fault,” Tony replies, gallantly, running a hand through his hair. “Really.” 

“I think perhaps I'll...” Ivor points at the house. Tony nods. The sand scorches Ivor's feet as badly on the way back as it did on the way out here, although this time it's accompanied by a burning, buzzing shame inside him. 

Noel's on the veranda when he gets back, wearing his dressing gown, although it's nearly one o'clock in the afternoon, and drinking a scotch, although it's nearly one o'clock in the afternoon. 

“Making friends, Ivor?” 

Abruptly, Ivor feels annoyed with the whole bloody Riviera and with Noel in particular. He's one of the most intelligent men Ivor has ever met, yet he's made a career, a religion, out of seeming frivolous. “Not really. Actually,” he adds, “I think I might head back to England shortly.” He wants very much to see Bobbie again, the sooner the better. 

Noel shrugs easily. “Fair enough. Dear Tony's mad for an old chum of his, anyway.” Ivor doesn't care to hear the details. That's never stopped Noel from telling him anything. “Heard all about him when the pair of us got fried the other night. Schoolboy romance, it seems. Bosom companions for years and all that. Asked me how he could prove his love after a long ago quarrel and an extended separation.” Noel takes a drag on his cigarette. “I told him to make a grand romantic gesture. Something really impressive that this chum won't soon forget. Fireworks, explosions, the whole bit. That,” Noel adds, “or a bunch of flowers and the fuck of his life.” 

That's what Bobbie needs. Not the fuck, although he surely wouldn't complain, but the grand gesture. Something to make up for what Ivor nearly did. Something to assuage Ivor's guilt. “Noel,” he says, decisively, “Bobbie and I will be having our twentieth anniversary soon. I want to do something big. The party of the century.” Ivor can picture it now, his Redroofs estate lit up like a firecracker, all for lovely, wonderful, patient Bobbie.

Noel grins. “You know I'll be there with bells on, darling. And anything else you'd like me to wear."

Ivor looks out the window. Tony seems to be having some sort of argument with himself, alternately holding his head in his hands and yelling out at the sea. “He is an absolute dear,” Ivor says, “but don't let's invite Tony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As well as writing some of the funniest plays of the 20th century, Noel Coward wrote this song: [ I've Been To a Marvellous Party ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOgyq3opK5k) as a parody of his pre-Second World War Riviera lifestyle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your supportive comments! I really appreciate them.

Before the aborted Apocalypse, Aziraphale's life—his existence, he should say—was like a big, lovely ladyfinger trifle. Occasionally, one came across a nasty maraschino cherry, often named Gabriel, but on the whole, it was delicious, and it was predictable. All the layers were in plain sight, visible and obvious, with few surprises. 

Now, his existence is more like a pie, encased in a golden pastry crust. It's still very nice, but it is mysterious. Uncertain. He doesn't quite know what is lurking, hidden from view. It might be rhubarb. Or custard. Or beef. Aziraphale needs to take up his metaphorical fork and break the shell, he knows that, but he has yet to summon the courage to do so. 

“Angel! Are you here?” Crowley's voice calls. Aziraphale is sequestered in a quiet corner of the shop, running his hands idly over shelved books. He's reached the point where he can't exactly remember what he had before and what came to him courtesy of Adam's ideas of what an old bookshop should have, but it's fun to guess. “I've brought you a gift.”

“Goodness me, another one?” These past few weeks, Crowley has positively showered him with presents. Flowers, chocolates, books he already has. Sushi on takeaway trays and a picnic basket from Fortnum and Mason and a Google Home, which Aziraphale has no clue what to do with, so he bids it “Good morning” and “Good night” and ignores it the rest of the day. “You're practically a Magi, darling. Did I ever tell you they got quite lost at first? Gabriel was furious. And I quote, 'It's the brightest star in the sky. What the fuck do they want, a GPS'?” 

“Here.” 

Aziraphale turns around. Crowley holds out two slips of paper which, upon inspection, turn out to be tickets to see Cole Porter's “Anything Goes”, starring John Barrowman at the Noel Coward Theatre in Covent Garden. Aziraphale lets slip a murmur of delight. He's longed to see this production for months. But, “Do you like musical theatre, dear? I seem to remember you comparing at length 'The Phantom of the Opera' to a demonic torture the last time we went to the West End.”

Crowley shrugs. “You like it.” 

“Yes, but...” But we could do what you like sometimes. Aziraphale doesn't say it. It would be too disingenuous. He knows perfectly well what Crowley would like to do. Aziraphale rather fancies it, too. _There's every chance the pie will be brilliant_ , he tells himself. Maybe even his new favourite. _But then_ , he counters, _it might turn out to be eel, or sardine, or something equally ghastly. And how would we ever come back from that?_ “What time do you want to pick me up?”

“I'll be here at six-thirty,” Crowley says. He kisses Aziraphale's cheek, a new habit since they stood hand-in-hand at the end of the world. Aziraphale doesn't reciprocate, but he doesn't pull away, either. 

“I'll be ready by then,” Aziraphale says. It sounds like an empty promise, even to him. 

***

The theatre is busy, of course. Crowley and Aziraphale have a quick drink at the bar, and take their seats just before the curtain goes up. 

“I knew him,” Aziraphale whispers, as they settle in. “Cole, I mean.” Such a nice fellow. Dreadfully naughty, with all of his men, but he wrote a song about Gabriel, which Aziraphale sent upstairs. He doesn't think Gabriel ever listened to it. 

“John Barrowman kissed me once,” Crowley replies, so nonchalantly Aziraphale is certain he must have misheard. 

“What?”

“In the menswear department at Selfridges. Thought I was somebody else.” The curtain stirs, and a hush falls over the audience. It's just as well. Aziraphale is speechless. And it takes an act of supreme willpower for him not to miracle John Barrowman into the same state. 

Despite Aziraphale's sudden animosity towards the principal actor, the performance is wonderful. Crowley buys Aziraphale a very nice ice cream at the interval, which only increases Aziraphale's happiness. He's so happy, in fact, that when the curtain ascends for the second half, Aziraphale has the sudden, insistent desire to take Crowley's hand. A few centuries ago, even a few decades ago, he would have thought nothing of it. He would have thought nothing of patting Crowley's thigh to convey his friendship, of whispering intimately into Crowley's ear to share some important information, of putting his wing over Crowley to shield him from the rain. Now, all of those actions would be imbued with something more, something greater and brighter and scarier than existed before. _Don't be an idiot_ , Aziraphale tells himself, as he places his hand in his own lap. _It was always there, you just didn't want to see it._

Cole's tunes are supremely hummable. Even “Blow, Gabriel, Blow” was in Aziraphale's mind and on his lips for days after he first heard it, despite Crowley's snickering. Today, Aziraphale leaves the Noel Coward Theatre with a spring in his step and “Anything Goes” in his head. _In olden days, a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking..._

“Where to now, angel?” Crowley asks, as they reach the car. 

_Now Heaven knows, anything goes._

“Do you know what we haven't seen for a while, dear?” Aziraphale can finish that thought with any noun in any language. The rings of Saturn. The Mariana trench. A Komodo dragon. Crowley will get them there. He'll take Aziraphale anywhere he wants to go, do anything Aziraphale asks him to. Devotion like that should make Aziraphale feel anxious, like Crowley is placing him dangerously above his station. Instead, it makes him feel tingly and warm inside. “Stars,” he says, finally. “Not up close. I mean, like we used to see in the old days. Before there were all these people and all this...” He waves a hand at the buildings around them, lighting up the sky like it's mid-afternoon. 

“Light pollution,” Crowley puts in. 

“Yes. That.”

“All right.”

“But,” Aziraphale adds quickly, “let's do it the human way. Take the car.” Aziraphale will never ask why Crowley drove the flaming Bentley to Tadfield when he didn't really have to. He suspects the answer is closely related to the answers to such questions as, “Why didn't you go to Alpha Centauri without me?”, “Why did you run into a burning bookshop looking for me?” and “Why don't you ever give up?”

It takes more than an hour before they're far enough into the countryside to see anything resembling stars. Crowley takes the Bentley down a narrow unpaved road—and if Aziraphale ever questioned his love, the proof of it is right there—and they park in the middle of a farmer's field. 

“Reminds me of that campaign we went on with Julius Caesar,” Aziraphale says, looking up, although there are far fewer stars now than there were then, when it seemed like the sky was covered in spilled diamonds. 

“The one where we had to hang about boring bloody Bithynia while he fucked the king?” 

“That's a terribly crude way of putting it, darling.” It seemed like there was genuine love between Caesar and Nicomedes, despite the obstacles in their way. 

“I was thinking more like China, when we went to check out that wall.”

Aziraphale sighs happily. “Emperor Ai of the Han Dynasty and Dong Xian.” Now there's a romantic story. “It was said that when they fell asleep together, the emperor cut off the sleeve of his robe rather than move his arm and disturb the man he loved.” 

Crowley snorts. “Pretty sure it wasn't Gucci, then.” 

Aziraphale wants to laugh. Instead, he hears himself say, “How did they know?” 

Crowley takes off his glasses and rests them on the dashboard. That action alone, rare when he's drunk and practically unheard of when he's not, is almost enough to distract Aziraphale. “Know what?” 

_What was inside the pie._ “That it would work out between them.” 

“They don't. Nobody ever does.” 

“You talked the humans into eating the apple. They didn't know what would happen then, either.” It's something Aziraphale has never understood, if he's honest. He put it down to Crowley just being that seductive, in all of his undertakings. 

“I guess they just thought it was worth it. That maybe,” Crowley says, slowly, “it was worth taking a risk with something pretty damn good in the hopes they could have something even better. But,” he adds, “it's up to you, angel. Always will be.” 

It's not really. The events of the last few weeks have proven that. “Tomorrow is promised to no man,” and that, it seems, includes ethereal and occult beings. 

Aziraphale has made an art out of dithering. He can spend upwards of an hour choosing an entree at the Ritz, and upwards of fifty years deciding on a new pair of trousers. That does not, however, mean that he doesn't get there in the end.

The first kiss is not quite what he expected. It's dry, awkward, off-centre. Their noses bump, then their chins. Aziraphale pulls back. “Well. That was, ah...”

Crowley doesn't say anything. Instead, he takes Aziraphale's face in both hands, slides along the seat until their legs are touching, and tries again. 

This time, it's the poems of Sappho and Emily Dickinson and Lord Byron, the music of Cole Porter and Billie Holiday and Tchaikovsky. It's the works of Shakespeare and Noel Coward and Tennessee Williams and the art of Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo and Sigrid Blomberg. Aziraphale would say it's Heaven, except he's spent a bit of time there lately, and this is better. And if God smites him for that blasphemous thought, at least he'll go out happy. 

“I sort of love you a lot,” Crowley says, his lips moving against Aziraphale's. He sounds uncertain, like he's not sure he should be saying it. He shouldn't be. It's still the most lovely sentence Aziraphale has ever heard, and at once it etches itself onto his heart. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies. It's not quite the thing, he knows, but Crowley understands. Crowley understands everything about him. 

Well, perhaps not everything. “Do you want to go home?” Crowley asks, but home is over an hour away, if they do it properly, and now that he's finally cracked the crust, Aziraphale is in no way interested in waiting any longer to dig in. 

“I think this will do nicely, darling,” he says, miracling away the steering column and gear box and pulling Crowley down on top of him. 

***

The car parked in the field is a Bentley. It's posher than the usual Fords and Toyotas Constable Kassam gets around here, but, judging from the rhythmic bouncing of the car on its tires, it's being used for exactly the same purpose.

She pulls up behind it, takes her torch and opens her car door. She doesn't enjoy this part of her job, particularly—she's in love, too—but she gets out, boots crunching as loudly as possible on the unpaved road. She knocks on the window of the Bentley, waits a brief moment, and swings the torch beam through the glass.

It's two blokes this time. One is a soft, gentlemanly-looking type, and the other can only be described as “rough trade." That one rushes to put sunglasses on, even before he fastens his fly. _On drugs?_ Kassam wonders. _Domestic abuse victim? Both?_

The gentleman rolls down his window, smiling with a prim composure Kassam has to admire, a little. She doesn't think she could manage it, if she had kiss-swollen lips and what appears to be a potentially life-threatening love bite on the side of her neck. 

“Sorry to ruin your evening, lads,” Kassam says. “But you're going to have to come with me.” She would normally let them go with a warning, but she has a strange feeling about this couple.

“While I appreciate the difficult job you do, I don't think that's going to be necessary,” the gentleman informs her. Rough Trade says nothing. _See if Fiona can get him to talk down at the station_ , Kassam thinks. That woman can work wonders with a cup of tea and a box of tissues. “It's all perfectly fine,” the gentleman goes on. "This dear fellow and I are friends.”

“Friends.”

“Friends,” he repeats. “Thank you so much for the directions, Constable.” The gentleman has a sheet from Kassam's notebook in his hand, covered with directions to the M25 in her handwriting. For a second, Kassam wonders how he got it, then she remembers. She gave it to them, of course, just a minute ago, after they flagged down her car to ask for help. _Too many night shifts_ , she thinks, giving her head a shake. _I need a holiday._

“You don't want to rely too much on those mobile phone maps,” she says, sternly. “Get you into a world of trouble, they will.”

The man nods. “It won't happen again.”

“Careful driving with those glasses at night,” she tells the other man. 

“Ah, yes. He has terrible difficulty with glare.” The gentleman looks at her. “You really should be going, Constable Kassam. Crime to fight and all that, yes?” Kassam really should be going. She has crime to fight, and all that. 

“And text your wife,” the other man adds. “She worries about you.” 

“Oh, _Crowley_.” The gentleman beams at his clearly platonic friend, then reaches over to squeeze his knee. 

_It's great to see a pair of real friends like that_ , Kassam thinks. She goes back to her car, texts Lisa a few in-joke emojis and a row of kisses, and puts her car into reverse so everyone can get on their way.


End file.
